“I’ve got it,” she said. “Vicar, you open the fête with a prayer. Get yourself a good sound system. Think of the size of the congregation. I’ll get Betsy to sing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Set the tone.”

The vicar’s eyes shone. “I can see it now,” he said, clasping his hands as though in prayer.

“Yes, so can I,” said George. “Mess and rubbish everywhere.”

Trixie squeezed his arm. “Oh, Georgy Porgy, don’t be a great bear. Little Trixie is thrilled to bits.”

She’s five feet eight inches, thought Agatha sourly, and people who refer to themselves in the third person are always crashing bores.

“It’ll be marvellous,” said Agatha. “It’ll really put Comfrey Magna on the map!”

She wondered how she could manage to engineer an evening with George on his own. Mustn’t seem too needy. Men could smell needy across two continents.

In vain during the meal did George try to protest against the visit of the pop star. The vicar and his wife were too excited to listen to him.

What was worse, George was beginning to look at her with something like dislike in those grass-green eyes of his.

He leaned across the table, interrupting the vicar’s enthusiastic plans and said coldly, “I’ve decided I don’t really want to be part of this.”

“But George,” wailed Trixie, “we depend on you to organize the marquees and things.”

“I am sure the very efficient Mrs. Raisin can take over from me. I only chipped in because Saint Odo’s is a beautiful church and the fête was one way to raise funds towards the necessary repairs as well as sending some money to charity.”

“Listen,” said Agatha, panicking as gorgeous George seemed to be vanishing over the flat horizon of her present manless life, “here’s an idea which will get you so much money you could build a cathedral. It will only mean one day of chaos. You put up barricades at the two roads leading into the village. You charge five pounds a head for entry. You get a couple of farmers, say, to contribute fields for parking. Haven’t you any Boy Scouts or Girl Guides?”